


Prelude to the Start

by orphan_account



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Samwell, also au where jack and shitty lived in georgia Pre-Samwell, au where shitty is friends with jack and bitty separately, but they've never met otherwise, just go with it im sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 14:56:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19336834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Bitty's passion in life was found on the ice in the form of figure skating. When his father suggests he quit, he decides to shift gears and play hockey- but he goes for one last dance at the Summer Showcase Shitty's rink is hosting. A certain someone notices the figure skater among the hockey bros, but the two are separated before they can meet face-to-face.Until they end up at the same college, and Jack doesn't know Bitty is the mystery ice dancer.





	1. Before the Showcase

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work on here! I'll continue more consistently it if anyone wants to read more but as of right now I just wanted to write the groundwork for something I could go back to if I got bored. Please enjoy!

        Eric Bittle had been figure skating since the moment he could walk. The Winter Olympics had showcased many incredible skaters, dressed in bright, flattering costumes, telling stories with nothing but the bodies and their skates. He wanted to be a part of it all. As soon as he could, Bitty started taking lessons and entering competitions, and as soon as he did that, he started winning them.

        Bitty spent most of his life at the rink. When he wasn’t skating, he was working concessions at hockey games, giving lessons to younger children, or doing whatever he could to be near the ice. He loved it there- the cool, fresh feeling that washed over him as soon as he entered, the satisfaction of landing a particularly tricky move- it was all astounding. So when his father suggested he quit, his immediate answer was a resounding “No.”

        Bitty had known his father didn’t appreciate his skating as much as he would if it were something like football. He just wasn’t prepared to actually talk about it like this.

        “Son, when you go to college, it’s gonna be tough to continue. They don’t have skating tournaments as often, it’s more geared towards sports.”

        “Skating is a sport, daddy. It’s not as easy as you think,” Bitty said through gritted teeth.

        “I know, son, it’s just that I think it would be better for you to join a team. Get a scholarship. I know you love skating, but…” Coach couldn’t seem to find the right words. “Just consider it,” he finished, then headed down the hallway to his office. The conversation was over.

* * *

 

        “I don’t know how I’m supposed to just… drop it.” Bitty looked at his friend, searching for any wisdom he could offer. “I mean, I’ve been skating for how many years now? And he wants me to consider other things for college. Where’s the sense in that? If there’s a rink, I can skate. It’s just as reliable as any other sport he’d have me do.” His friend, Shitty, had heard about the whole conversation on their way to the park.

        “Hey, brah. You don’t have to give it up entirely. I mean, even if you did, it’s like, a part of you now, you know? So even if you do let it go, it’s still there. You still know how to get on the ice and move.” Shitty leaned back and looked out towards the pond out in the middle of the park. “I say, keep on doing whatever you want. You’re an adult. He can’t make you stop. Plus you’re already paying your own way through lessons and like registration fees and shit, right? So no biggie.” Bitty didn’t answer, but he thought about it.

        “Maybe.” Suddenly- “Wait. What if I did both?” He sat up. Shitty’s face showed a mixture of confusion and interest.

        “Bro, how are you gonna quit AND keep skating?”

        “No, no- I mean- what if I quit figure skating, but stayed on the ice?” Shitty suddenly broke into a huge grin.

        “Are you saying-” Shitty had been trying to get Bitty into hockey since they’d become friends. He’d gone to a few games, and he was almost always working concessions for them, but it was too violent for him. Now, that same violence that deterred him before made it all the more appealing. There was no WAY Coach would be upset with such a masculine activity.

        “I’m not saying anything. I’m just considering my options, so don’t get too excited, now.”

        “Too late.”

* * *

 

        It only took Shitty two days to acquire all the right equipment for Bitty after that conversation. Bitty was suspicious that he’d had it for a while, but decided not to say anything. He was making too many people happy with this to go back on it now, so he just decided to embrace it. He got a few lessons and that was that. Shitty also went out of his way to teach Bitty all about hockey culture- who’s who, why they’re important, and of course, which of them he’d personally seen passed out naked on the bench at the rink after a post-game party. Many- _no, all,_ Bitty thought- of these stories came with pictures. Try as he might, Shitty’s tirades were impossible to derail. A few times, however, there came one he didn’t want to stop in its tracks.

        “This,” Shitty presented him with a series of pictures of a rather attractive hockey player from several interviews, “is none other than Jack Laurent Zimmermann.” Bitty took the pictures and examined them. “He’d be a legend on his own, but on top of him being a monster hockey player, his dad won the Stanley Cup for the third time back in 1978. Plus, his ass is enormous. He’s my best friend.” Shitty wiped a tear from his eye. Bitty was uncertain whether he was joking around, or if Shitty was really that verklempt about this man’s ass, which, to be fair, was rather big. _Maybe deciding to play hockey wasn’t that bad of a decision_ , Bitty thought.

        “Oh, speaking of which, there’s gonna be a big showcase at my rink next week. Hockey players, skaters, all kinds of ice freaks. Everyone gets five minutes of whatever. I know a couple of guys are gonna combine their times and get a scrimmage, and some other people are doing… I think it’s called… curling? There’s also a synchro team. I think you should go down there and get one last dance.” Bitty stared at him.

        “Shitty B. Knight, I have not touched my figure skates! I’ve not rehearsed a single move- no choreography- you give me A WEEK? Shits, you’re out of your mind.”

        “Whoa, hey, my bad, man. I heard about it literally yesterday. You don’t have to do it, like I’m not gonna force you or anything, but you could just reuse one of your old routines. No one there’ll have seen it,” he suggested. Bitty pondered it. He could use his routine from the winter showcase, but the costume might not fit, the song was outdated, and he barely remembered it.

        It could work.

        One last dance, it was, then.

        And thus, every day for the next week Bitty was at Shitty's usual rink all the way across town. He adjusted himself to a different setting while trying to figure out the choreography and patching up places he’d forgotten it. The costume fit just fine, and by the time of the showcase, the song could be considered a throwback of sorts. It was a stretch (so was the costume’s size) but it would work. It would have to.

        The last few notes faded out and Bitty completed his routine. It was the first run that had gone perfectly. It was also the last run before the show tomorrow, as it was 8:56 PM and the rink closed at 9 so preparations could be made for the showcase.

        Bitty felt his face flushed as he started towards the exit. The coolness that emanated from the ice calmed his nerves. He looked around at the empty rink one last time before packing his things to go home. " _Last hurrah_ ," he thought as he smiled to himself. " _One last dance_."


	2. Last Performance

        The day of the showcase came. Bitty was in his room, packing up the last of his equipment.

        “Feeling good, Dicky?” called a voice from the doorway.

        “Feeling ready, Mama,” he responded. It was their typical greeting before a performance. He sat down on the bed. “Last one.”

        “Aw, Dicky. I’m sure you’ll find a way to keep at it at Samwell.” His mother, Suzanne, joined him on his bed. She touched his shoulder. “Hey, we still have about an hour before you need to leave. What say you we make some food?” Bitty smiled.

        “I think I’d like that.”

        The kitchen quickly became a storm of flour, eggs, sugar, and various fruits. _Stress baking is the best and worst kind_ , Bitty thought, intently making up another pie crust. His mother took two blueberry pies out of the oven and put them on the wire rack to cool.

        “We have time for one more, but then we really need to go,” she reported, hands on her hips. “Can’t have you being late.”

        “Yes, Mama.” Bitty moved on to the filling- a classic apple pie. A good note to finish on.

        “Bits! Smelled some pie from down the street and you know, I just had to stop by- Hello, Mrs. Bittle!” Shitty had arrived, loudly as ever, meaning it really was time to go.

        “You can take one for the road, Mr. Knight. You boys need to get out of here before you’re late.” She faked a disapproving stare when Shitty took nearly a third of the still-warm blueberry pie, but ushered him, Bitty, and the pie out the door anyway.

* * *

 

        The two boys arrived at the rink early, surprisingly, so they had time to walk around a bit. Bitty needed to change, but it could wait a little while as he got out his last-minute nerves.

        “Doin’ alright, brah?” Shitty was tying up his laces. He was participating in the showcase as well, using some stick tricks and special shots. He also intended to dance, but in a more literal sense than Bitty. Like breakdancing. Which was bound to go terribly, but Bitty was under the impression that that was the point.

        “Doing just fine, Shitty. Just a little nervous is all. It happens before every performance, so it’s no big deal. Except it is? Because my last run last night went flawlessly so I’m not certain about this one? But I should be fine because that’s just a stupid little superstition, so alls I need to do is stay focused. But it’s a lot of pressure on this little brain of mine, it being my last performance and all. I just want it to be perfect and-”

        “Bits. You’re nervous ranting.” Shitty looked at him with a stare that was encouraging, yet grounding. “You’re gonna be fine, dude. What’s the absolute worst that could, like, feasibly happen?” Bitty thought about it, then put his head in his hands, imagining all the worst case scenarios he’d tried to avoid

        “Oh lord.”

        “Okay never mind, do not think about that stuff. Note to self- don’t ask that question ever again.” Shitty looked uncomfortable. “Listen. You know what you’re doing. These other guys? Theyr’re all hockey bros. They won’t know shit about what you’re doing except that it looks tight as hell. So it’s chill, dude.” Shitty stood up and looked out towards the ice. “It’s about time to get out there. You got this, bro.”

        Bitty stayed quiet for a moment. “Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath. He stood as well. “Let’s do this.”

* * *

 

        “And coming up next, we have this showcase’s very first figure skater! Everyone welcome him to our rink- from Skate Country, we have Eric Bittle!”

        Bitty skated around the rink once before coming to a halt at center ice. The Zamboni had just gone around the ice, so it was fresh. He felt the cool air from beneath him and the eyes all around him.

        Time to go. The music starts softly, and Bitty’s feet began to move almost effortlessly.

* * *

        From outside the rink near the concession stand, it was very difficult to see what was happening on the ice. It was not, however, difficult to hear what the crowd was feeling. Usually, a deafening roar came from them. The silence that was currently coming from the crowd was new to Jack.

        Not complete silence. A few notes of music had sprung from the otherwise quiet room. Jack looked through the windows to see what was going on.

        The crowd was completely enraptured. All the normally rambunctious hockey players were silent as they watched whatever was happening. Suddenly, that familiar roar came back, but only very briefly. Naturally, Jack was curious.

        A lone figure skater was on the ice, performing to a piece of music Jack had never heard. He was going incredibly fast, from one end of the rink to the next in what seemed like less than a second. Then, he jumped and spun, turning into a blur. When he landed, the crowd went wild again. It was easy to see why they were all watching so closely- Jack had never seen anything quite like it.

        He’d watched the Olympics for years, of course. He’d seen figure skaters on television. In real life, though, it was much different. So much more tangible- and far more beautiful, too. He couldn’t look away if he wanted to. _Like a car crash- but pleasant_ , he thought.

        He hadn’t been inside to catch the name of the performer and he was going far too fast for Jack to see any of his features, but he saw (or rather, heard) Shitty absolutely losing it towards the other side of the rink, so Jack assumed he was one of Shitty’s friends from the other rink.

        The music swelled. The skater started doing different jumps, spinning on the ice like a top, and skating with one leg so high up in the air he was doing a split. He flowed with the music, and ebbed with it, too. He was a part of it. Jack could not get enough.

        Just then, the music slowed to a near halt. It was almost over. The skater went to land his final jump and the crowd waited anxiously to watch another impossible leap. He hit the ice- but then he kept going, and just collapsed.

        It looked purposeful enough to Jack, but by the look on Shitty’s face, it was a mistake. The crowd did not seem to mind- Everyone was cheering as though their favorite team had just scored the winning point. The skater didn’t seem to notice. He started towards Shitty and the exit, facing away from Jack. Shitty hugged him, and they began to leave.

        Jack wanted to meet him, or at least see his face. He began walking towards where he’d seen the two leave. They might have been headed towards the locker room. He tried to follow, but he quickly lost sight of them. People had begun to leave the rink, disinterested in watching yet another hockey player attempt to top the figure skater’s performance. Eventually, he made it to the locker room, where they’d seemed to disappear. It was empty, save for a few voices coming from the back

        “What did I tell you, man? They didn’t even notice!” Shitty’s voice rose from behind the last row of lockers. A sniffling sound accompanied it.

        “Yes, I heard them, but…” Another sniff, followed by a soft sob. “That was it. That was my last performance, Shits. My last one and I mucked it all up, right at the end. What a note to end on.” Jack’s heart sank. He had intended to approach, but it seemed like the opposite of the right time. He got out of there as quickly and as quietly as he possibly could.

        As he left, Jack began to wonder- what could possibly make a person as clearly talented as that skater want to quit? Why would he ever stop? Jack thought about going back in and convincing the mystery skater not to quit. Maybe he could talk to Shitty about it. Someone like that shouldn’t just give it up, but then Jack thought maybe there was a good reason for it. He ultimately decided it wasn’t his business and that Shitty had probably already tried convincing him anyway.

        Jack looked around at the nearly empty rink. He hadn’t thought about how the next time he played a game, he’d be at Samwell with Shitty. “What a note to end on.” The skater’s words played through his head. He agreed fully.

        What a note to end on indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those who've read this far! Please leave a comment if you can, I'd greatly appreciate it!


	3. Of College Hockey and Forgotten Dances

        Bitty walked towards to entrance to Samwell University. It had been several weeks since he'd put away his figure skates for good and switched over completely to hockey. His summer lessons with Shitty had helped, but he still felt as though he was going to be left behind on the Samwell team. He hadn't seen the team roster yet, but he did know one thing- Jack Zimmermann was on his team. Everyone else had played alongside him for at least a year. Bitty was one of the few who hadn't.

        He took a deep breath and headed for the spot marked on his map. Shitty had told him where everything was, and had given an expletive-ridden digital tour throughout the most important places on campus. Bitty headed towards his dorm while his parents parked the car. Samwell was a sight to behold- on a sunny day like this one, even just standing in the middle of Lake Quad, you could see to the bottom of the Pond, and all the windows of the library sparkled. 

        Bitty got to his dorm pretty quickly thanks to Shitty's tour. It's surprisingly easy to remember things when they're associated with a story of Shitty's. Evidently Bitty's residence hall was, "like, hella fucking haunted, brah." Shitty's words. He didn't happen upon any ghosts on the tour over Skype, or walking up to his room, so Bitty felt safely un-haunted for the time being. Pretty soon, his parents brought up his things and he got unpacked. 

        "Oh, Dicky, your first day at college! I'm so excited for you I could melt." Suzanne fawned over Bitty pretty much nonstop since he'd woken up that morning. He knew it was probably good for her, so he said nothing. "I'm going to miss you so darn much, I just don't know what I'm going to do with myself." His father nodded in agreement. Bitty counted that as an overall win for this conversation. Things had been tense between the two since Bitty quit figure skating. That is to say, more tense than usual.

        His mother hugged him so tight he genuinely believed she'd crack his ribs, then they left. Both had to be at work back in Georgia early the next morning, so they had to be back in time for bed. Meaning there wasn't much time for long-winded goodbyes that would mean nothing, considering the fact that Bitty knew he would be on the phone with his mother as soon as his parents had gotten a few miles down the highway. He didn't mind. It made saying goodbye easier- knowing that it was temporary, and that nothing would change. Saying goodbye to Georgia, and his hometown, on the other hand- that was difficult.

        Bitty was unpacking just a few final things from the smaller boxes when Shitty crashed through the door. 

        "Bittle! You're here! Sorry I didn't call. I was just walking around with a hockey friend when we passed here and I remembered that you move in today!" Shitty flopped onto the bed. "Welcome to Samwell, dude." Bitty smiled. Again, it was nice to know that some things never change, regardless of the time or place. 

        "Hello, Mr. Knight," Bitty laughed.

        "I see you've gotten comfortable already. You ready to head out? We're doing the frog welcome tour of the Haus pretty soon, and we both have to be there." Shitty had filled him in on all the necessary information about the Samwell Men's Hockey team during the tour. True to form, Bitty was now acutely aware of information he probably didn't need- alcohol tolerance levels and d-men backstories from players that graduated years ago, but most importantly, the by-laws. They dictate the way of life for the hockey team, he'd been told, and would be imperative to remember. They seemed...arbitrary... to say the least, but Bitty had a feeling they all existed for very specific circumstances anyways.

        The moment he and Shitty arrived at the Haus, Bitty felt what could only be described as a disturbance in the force. Shitty was on the porch, addressing all the new Samwell Men's Hockey freshmen, saying something about lax bros, and how they sucked. Bitty could not shake the feeling that something was wrong. As soon as he was ushered into the Haus, he figured it out.

        The kitchen was a hellscape of empty beer cans and frat house grime. Instinctively, he set to work on a pie. As if that would help the situation in this god-awful sriracha den. The rest of the tour left him behind, and he continued to bake. Why not?

        He noticed several buff dudes pass by, poking their heads in, sniffing, raising eyebrows questioningly, giving him thumbs up, and leaving. If this was how his life at college was going to be, Bitty decided he would not complain about hockey. Just baking. No questions that couldn't be answered with blueberry or apple pastries.

        Shitty came back to look for Bitty. When he stepped into the kitchen, he had the audacity to look surprised. 

        "Bitty. The actual fuck." Shitty had, somewhere along the tour, lost his shirt and replaced his pants with obnoxious surf shorts. Bitty was unfazed. "I spent a whole hour explaining to your dudes what Ransom and Holster's bathroom deal was- not doing that shit again, so don't ask me any goddamn questions about it. You get to learn the hard way," he grumbled.

        "Shits, you know what happens when I step into a kitchen. Pies just start appearing." Bitty set down a pecan pie to cool. "In addition, why on this great green earth does this kitchen have oil all over the walls?"

        "Frat party," responded a voice from the hallway. And just like that, Bitty's vision went fuzzy. Jack Zimmermann, actual hockey god, was staring at him. Saying words. Bitty was sure he'd die- considering the last time Jack saw him, he wasn't sure why he hadn't been thrown outside yet. And then he said more words. "Shitty probably doesn't remember. He got drunk and thought the vegetable oil was a bottle of beer. Spat it all over the walls." Then he left. And that was it.

        "Man of few words. Gotta love him. I sure as hell do!" Shitty grinned at his short, blonde, clearly dazed friend. Bitty wondered how long it takes for a living human to melt completely to the ground, and started to count down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, everyone! Summer has been pretty busy and I didn't have much energy or motivation to make words work. I'll try to post more often after this, I swear! Let me know what you thought!


	4. Practice Blues

        The new frogs were settling in nicely and getting their respective jobs done while on the ice. They weren't quite a team yet, Jack noted, but they had made progress. Each one was improving at a steady rate.

        Except one.

        Bittle couldn't seem to keep his feet under him when the puck got close, and when a player approached him, he just crumpled. It was a mess. No one knew how to fix it. Bittle's issue with contact was frustrating, to say the least. It was a setback for everyone.

        Jack approached him after a particularly rough practice. "What's your problem?" he demanded, rather than asked. Bittle stammered out a response.

        "I just- I'm not... good with being... hit." Not the answer Jack wanted - not a question he wanted to have to get an answer for, he supposed.

        "Well you had better practice it because at this rate, the only purpose you'll serve in a real game is the opponent's punching bag. Get with the rest of the team or quit." He stormed away after that. Practice was almost over, and he didn't want to face the consequences of his words. Jack had needed to let something out, and he did.

        _Mission accomplished,_ he thought.

        Jack headed back to the Haus quickly after that. He knew he was running away from Bittle, but Jack was just glad that he finally had a problem that could be solved by avoiding it.

* * *

 

        Later that week, Bittle dropped again. Rather viciously, one might add. He hit the ice with a loud _thud_ that caused all the practicing players to stop their drills dead in their tracks. The coaches ushered Bittle into their office. He did not return for the rest of the day.

        Jack managed to catch him at the Haus later, baking a batch of cookies. He seemed distressed- rightly so.

        "I dunno, Mama. It's tough to say at this point, but I can't be sure-" he turned, noticing Jack, and quickly stuttered "that- uh... well, sorry, Mama. I'll have to call you back." He hung up. "And to what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked, turning back to the dough on the counter. Jack cleared his throat, thinking of how to propose his idea.

        "I noticed you've been -euh, struggling- to get the hang of checking." A solid start, but judging by the way Bittle's features twisted, it was not the most graceful thing to say. "I was thinking, I could help you," he stepped into the kitchen. Bittle stayed silent for a moment.

        "I would appreciate that, thank you." He looked at Jack. "What were you thinking of doing?" Bittle leaned against the counter.

        "Checking practice. Be at Faber at 5 AM tomorrow morning." And with that, he left.

* * *

 

        Bitty was just wondering what curse he'd put on the higher powers that he had to be punished in such a cruel fashion. Checking practice. At 5 AM. With the world's grumpiest, prettiest, and least merciful man he'd ever met in his life. 

        Of course Bitty wanted to get better. Of course he wanted to stop being a deadweight and start doing good for his team. Of course he hated not being able to take a hit, but this? This was a price Bitty was unsure he'd be willing to pay. He showed up anyway, hopped up on caffeine and ready to cement in Jack's mind the fact that Bitty was unfit to wear a Samwell jersey. At least his downfall would be swift, he thought.

        "Bittle." Jack was already on the ice, and looked flushed, as though he'd already been there for a while. Because of course he had. Because he's Jack Zimmermann and knows no limits. Bitty hurried towards him, near center ice.

        "Good morning," Bitty yawned, already teetering back and forth. Mainly because of the lack of sleep. Partially because of what was about to happen.

        "Get up against the wall," Jack instructed, skipping formalities such as "hello" or "get ready, I'm about to hit you." Bitty did as he was asked.

        It took almost an hour before Bitty finally stopped curling into a ball the moment Jack started skating at him, and another hour after that before they made any actual contact.

        "You're better," Jack remarked as they began to leave, "but we are far from finished. Same thing tomorrow morning, and again until you can take a hit." He stopped. "Maybe more after that. We'll see." Bitty trailed behind as Jack skated towards the exit.

* * *

        Bitty supposed he was improving- slowly. Almost imperceptibly. But after having played a game- not only that, but gotten an assist- he had to admit, it was working in a way he doubted it would if he hadn't been doing those early morning sessions with Jack.

        Still, there had to be another reason he got every morning. Bitty thought for a moment. What about checking made him force himself out of bed at 4:30 to be at the rink just to get slammed around at 5 AM? The progress was probably half of it at the very least. What was the other half? 

        There wasn't much time for Bitty to think about it on the way to Faber. It was 4:55 and he was going to be late if he didn't pick up the pace a little bit.

        The practice went as normal. Stand against the boards, get hit, go down (or go forward), rinse and repeat. Two hours passed and Jack stopped him. Practice was over.

        "You're not doing so bad, Bittle. Would've never guessed you hadn't played hockey before if it hadn't been for your first few checks." Jack smiled, ever so slightly. It was a strange expression on him- Bitty had wondered how he'd never seen it before. Maybe he just hadn't noticed. What he DID notice was a slight flush in his cheeks that wasn't there before.

* * *

        "Is he like this with everyone?" Bitty rubbed his hand over his face- he felt sore enough to be laying on the disgusting couch at the Haus. Shitty was reading a book about discriminatory law across the room on the couch.

        "If you mean our boy Jack, then no. I wouldn't take it personally. Fuck, I'd probably take it as a compliment." Shitty had been hearing Bitty's complaints about checking practice for a few hours pretty much every time he had practice.

        "He doesn't do this with everyone?" Bitty asked. Shitty shrugged.

        "I mean, he defo pushes everyone at least a liiiiiitle bit. But the whole practice before practice thing is new." Bitty pondered this for a moment. He decided that his own shortcomings were probably a little more dire than most of the other guys'. Considering that he hadn't played hockey before, Bitty supposed it made sense, but Jack didn't know anything about his previous experience. Bitty shuddered. He was determined to keep it that way. Jack already thinks so lowly of him- it would be a mistake to remind him of Bitty's inability to stay upright in any other sport.

        "Shitty, you haven't told anyone about what I was doing before I started hockey, right?" Bitty faced his friend. 

        "Nah, bro, it hasn't come up yet. Figured I wouldn't purposely mention it unless you said to." Bitty let out a breath he didn't recall holding. Relief washed over him.

        "Good. Let's, uh... keep it that way." Bitty slowly rose from the dingy couch to go to his room. "Thank you." Shitty nodded.

* * *

 

        


	5. A Brush with Fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, it's me, I'm alive. I have not abandoned this yet! Enjoy!

        "Hey, y'all!" Bitty didn't take too long to find the rest of the team, who were already holed up in a couple of booths. The restaurant wasn't busy- 10 PM was not a particularly popular time for people to eat dinner. Unless you were on the Samwell Men's Hockey team, or Lardo. A chorus of whoops and cheers met his ears.

        "Hey, if it isn't our tiny little game-winner!" Ransom shouted above the din of the bro noises coming from his direction. Bitty quickly sat with him and Holster. The rest of the booth was empty, but Shitty and Jack were still on their way.

        "How's it feel, man? Got us a win there!" Holster reached across the table, over some greasy cheese fries, and clapped Bitty on the still-sore shoulder. "Oh. Sorry," he said, wincing even before Bitty did.

        "It feels... really good. Except the shoulder," Bitty laughed. "I gotta say, I still don't know how it happened. To be fair I did black out for a second afterwards." They laughed.

        "Doesn't matter to us, bro. You want some fries?" Before Bitty could respond, a heap of the disgustingly greasy (yet entirely appetizing) fries was pushed onto the small plate in front of him. Bitty laughed and ate a few, joking with Ransom and Holster until they were joined by Jack and Shitty. Another wave of hockey bro noises erupted as they approached. Shitty looked like he was in his element. Jack looked the same as ever- stoic, cold, and a little confused. They sat down at Bitty's table and each took a handful of fries.

        "Greetings, motherfuckers!" Shitty slumped backwards on his seat. 

        "Hello," Jack said, much quieter. "Good game. We played well." He, too, got comfortable. "Impressive goal at the end there, Bittle." Bitty flushed with humility. 

        "Oh, that? I'm still shocked I did it, too," Bitty chuckled. Ransom laughed.

        "To think this is your first year on the ice! You sure you never played hockey before college?" Shitty perked up, getting ready to brag about his friend's achievements.

        "Well, actually, Bitty was pretty killer at-" Shitty trailed off when he saw Bitty glaring at him. "He... was a pretty killer baker. Yes. Baking," he corrected. Holster scratched his head.

        "Not sure how that relates to hockey, but it's dope as hell." Ransom gave Bitty a nod of respect.

        "He still is, though? Did you do, like competitions or something?" All the eyes at the table (plus a few from the next, having overheard something about Bitty's baking) were trained on him.

        Bitty was damn glad he didn't have to lie about this. "Oh, yes, actually, I used to take my pies to county competitions. They'd get judged against other pies and pastries. Not to toot my own horn, but I won a pretty amount of ribbons in my time as a competitive baker." Shaken by the close brush with exposure, Bitty excused himself to the restroom.

        He couldn't begin to imagine what might happen if Jack ever- no, if _anyone_ ever found out about his skating career. They'd get curious and look him up- someone surely recorded him at the Showcase- and they'd all see how he couldn't do that, either. Bitty remembered the player who'd checked him against the wall during the game, causing his shoulder to ache the way it did now. He crumpled again. As soon as he got up, Bitty could feel Jack's cold steel blue eyes boring a hole through the number on the back of his jersey. He'd imagined it melting off and falling to the ice, just as he had. Bitty had never felt more like a failure. Aside from his Showcase routine.

        Sometimes Bitty wondered if Jack even remembered the Showcase. He figured he did, considering it was Jack's last time on the ice before college, too. Not quite the same, but similar. Bitty considered making Shitty ask for him, before quickly remembering that being surreptitious was not exactly one of Shitty's many fortes. Then again, it could be worth a try? Maybe.

* * *

        It wasn't until Bitty got back to his dorm that he sent the text asking Shitty to get the information from Jack. It was killing Bitty to know whether or not Jack would even recall the on figure skater who was at the one showcase that messed up his routine. 

        _1:32 AM, Tuesday_

_Shitty. I need you to find out if Jack remembers seeing me at the showcase without revealing that it was me._

_hold on im currently educating lardo on the principles of proper use of the oxford comma_

_i'll ask him tmw morning_

_I owe you so many pies after this_

 

        Bitty plugged his phone in and sprawled across his bed. Tomorrow he'd find out whether or not he could tell his teammates about what he really loved doing before he liked _(Jack Zimmerman)_ playing hockey.

        Whoa. Wait. Bitty was not prepared for that thought to cross his mind. Liking Jack? Not the craziest or least possible thing to happen, but he wasn't the most empathetic person. He was even a little inconsiderate. But damn, if he wasn't the prettiest man Bitty had ever seen. And he wanted what was best for everyone he met.

        _Nope. Not doing this tonight,_ Bitty thought. There are more important things to worry about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a bit shorter, but I have a clearer idea of where the story is going. Bear with me! I promise it will get done eventually. Let me know what you thought!


	6. Something is Afoot, and it's Not Bitty

        It happened during practice again. Falling- no pun intended- back into old habits is simple enough to be subtle at first, and then hit you in the face out of the blue. Bitty doesn't have much time to reflect on the symbolic meaning of his face on the ice before he's hoisted up, rather gruffly, by a disgruntled Jack Zimmerman. 

        "I thought we worked on this, Bittle." Regaining his balance is easy, up until he sees the disappointment in Jack's eyes. Well, maybe it's just that they're Jack's eyes, and they're a pair of the prettiest one Bitty's ever seen, and he-

        No. Not right now. Later, maybe, fine, but not now.

        "I'm so sorry, Jack, it's just- I mean, I'm rusty, and-" Bitty trails off when he notices the way Jack is staring at him. He's completely disinterested in excuses and it even looks as though he's not listening at all. "Jack? Hello?" His expression shifts a smidge, then he skates away. As his back is turned, Bitty hears him calling out-

        "Morning practice tomorrow. Don't be late. You know when and where." Bitty groaned, feeling all his weight in his feet as they dragged him towards the exit.

* * *

 

        Bittle seemed to take falling as a sign of weakness. Jack failed to understand why- obviously it wasn't a good thing, but considering that it was his first year playing hockey, Jack considered it a win that falling was Bittle's only real setback. There was something about him- he was so fragile, but still so persistent and deliberate. He cared about hockey. He seemed, at times, to care about Jack- which was, suffice to say, unexpected. It was a strange sort of thing, to be cared about the way Bittle cared about things. It wasn't the way his other friends and teammates treated him, and it wasn't the reverent way his father's fans did, either. It was similar to how Jack imagined one would care about someone they'd known since birth, and never wanted to be apart from.

        Must be a sibling thing. Jack was honored (and strangely hurt) by the notion that Bittle thought of him as a brother. That's all it was, after all. Team bonding activities could do that to a person. Simple teammate friendship gone further than most.

        Something felt off, though. Jack wished to himself that maybe things were a little different between them- He thought for a moment that it might be nice to take Bitty out for a day, just hanging out. He imagined they would go for lunch, stop at a sports memorabilia store, and maybe look in a bookstore to see if they had any cookbooks Bitty didn't have. That would be nice. Jack smiled at the thought of both of them finding something special that day. A new jersey, or a pastry recipe that would surely never live up to Bitty's impossible standards, but would be fun anyway.

        It might be a bit weird to go out one-on-one like that. Especially for Bittle. Thus, the idea was abandoned. Jack wished he could say he forgot about it- but the way Bitty had smiled at him in that little false memory was something he knew would stay with him for a long time.

        "Jack motherfucking Zimmermann!" Shitty was using his formal greeting today, it seemed. "How is my number one, my main man, the guy of the year?" Shitty, thankfully, was wearing pants. Granted, they were pulled about 3/4 of the way down, but they were there. Shitty flopped onto Jack's bed. 

        "Ah, I'm okay. You?" Shitty stretched himself across the bed.

        "I'm alright. I had a question, though. Bro to bro," he explained. "You remember that Showcase? Last summer?" Jack nodded, confused. "Okay good. I was trying to remember who all went to that, for the scrimmage. It was you, and I think Ransom and Holster showed up for some pre-season greetings, but like, who else?"

        "Euh... I think Lardo was there to watch... but no one else on the team was there, to my memory." Jack stared at the ground, hoping it would yield any name he'd forgotten. When it didn't, he felt oddly reassured that he hadn't. Strange he was being comforted by the floor, but based on the ratio of "Times Shitty has laid on a piece of furniture meant to be laid on" versus "Times Shitty has just laid face down on the ground," Jack thought that maybe the floor was more comforting than most people would think.

        "Nobody else? What about the other acts?" Shitty was clearly digging for something.

        "I mean, I don't really remember any of them. Not the hockey players, at least. The last guy- a figure skater? I think? I remember his act, but I don't know his name. Unless Johnson can secretly do twists like that." Shitty nodded grimly.

        "Wouldn't put it past him." Shitty had a very serious look on his face.

        "Didn't you know him? I thought I saw you two talking after he was done." Shitty rubbed his hand on his pants.

        "Well, uh, not really? He just looked a little upset, like he needed some bro pats on the shoulder or something." 

        Jack liked to think of himself as a sort of expert on Shitty and his behaviors. He did not understand them, but he was familiar with them. The understanding part was Lardo's job. It was up to Jack to expect them. Now, the way Shitty had stammered out his last sentence, and the way he'd suddenly sat up and sort of folded in on himself told Jack clear as day that Shitty was a liar. Why he'd lie about something like that was beyond Jack, but on the Haus, he was going to find out why. He set a side goal of figuring out which of Shitty's friends was the mystery ice skater.

        Something was afoot. Jack thought about Bittle falling earlier, and chuckled as he thought,  _Well, if something is afoot, it certainly isn't Bitty._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	7. Not-So-Undercover Boss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes hello I am alive y'all know the drill here's a thousand more words and a promise for more eventually when I get the time lol (sorry :P )

        Jack knew two things- one, Shitty knew who the ice skater was. Two, the chance that Shitty would outwardly tell him was slim to none. So, extrapolating from those points, Jack determined that a round of process of elimination was in order. It was sensible- the only problem was figuring out if the skater actually followed them to Samwell. If not, Jack might never get the chance to officially meet him. He wondered if the dancer had ever been to a hockey game before quickly remembering that he would have seen around three scrimmages the same day he performed. 

        Jack made a mental list of all the blondes on the team. The only two that fit the bill were Holster and Bitty.

        Holster was DEFINITELY not the tiny dancer from the showcase. Anyway, Jack was fairly certain he'd been in one of the scrimmages anyway. It couldn't possibly be Bittle, either. He had trouble just standing on the ice sometimes, and-

        Wait. The skater had fallen, too. He'd crumpled to the ice in the exact same manner as Bitty did whenever someone came at him too fast. He was the right size, but did he quite have the agility of a figure skater? Jack took a moment to think.

        Morning practice. Jack could explain the new play he'd made up, which required a very specific set of skills to pull off. If Bitty was his mystery dancer, Jack would know tomorrow morning. If not, Bitty would probably just fall again, and they'd start regular practice as usual. Jack grinned to himself, secretly relishing the idea of a spy mission of sorts. One of those frivolities he'd had such little time to pursue earlier in life. And Bittle would be none the wiser.

* * *

        "Jack, darlin, you know I value your expertise, but the rink is open at 2 pm all this week. Is there any way we could, I don't know, postpone practice?" Bitty was not above begging.

        Jack shook his head and smugly replied, "Nope. Unless you're up for early morning runs in addition to checking practice." Bitty groaned. He was beginning to think that it was the early morning light and the way it fell on Jack's chiseled face that was messing with his brain. Or maybe the way it felt to be alone near him, Jack's full attention on nothing and no one but Bitty. It was sort of intoxicating. It was a real shame that all that had to come with checking practice. Bitty often wondered that if practice hadn't been so early, maybe at a time when his mind was less vulnerable, if he would still harbor the same strange need to be near Jack.

        Doubtful. Bitty shook his head and got ready for bed, setting his alarm for a sickeningly early hour.  _Honestly, Jack,_ he thought,  _There's only supposed to be one five o'clock in the day._ He fell asleep quickly- this usually happened before an early practice. It was like his defense mechanism against the dark mornings.

        Dutifully, the next morning, Bitty dragged himself out of bed. He made and ate an especially groggy-looking bowl of grayish oatmeal and began to head out.

* * *

        Jack was excited. And nervous, he supposed, but mostly excited. At long last, he would be one step closer to the answer he didn't remember needing to know. He tapped his skate guards against the floor. Bitty was due here at any moment.

        The rink doors slid open. Jack felt some kind of release in his chest when he saw Bitty walk through. It was strange, how the sight of such a sorry looking tiny hockey player could make him feel so relieved.  _Must be the plan falling into place,_ Jack thought, with what he imagined to be a very stealthy and smug grin on his face. In reality it was more of a resting-annoying-morning-person face, but Jack was none the wiser.

        "Bittle. Nice of you to finally join me," he called. Bitty gave a wave that felt, even from across the rink, exactly like a groan.

        "Good mornin' to you too, Jack," He pulled on his skates and slid across the rink towards center ice. "Please tell me you have something planned that DOESN'T involve me getting slammed around at high speeds." Jack laughed.

        "Yes, actually. I do." Bitty visibly brightened, standing up a bit straighter and opening his eyes. He was almost smiling. Almost. Jack saw that as a win. "I came up with a new play. You might be the only one light enough to execute it." Bitty gulped. The dread he'd had before was returning. "What I plan to happen is you skate towards whoever's in possession of the puck, and as you pass, do some sort of distraction maneuver and take it. If this fails it's back to checking practice." Jack crossed his arms, awaiting Bitty's reply.

        "What kind of... maneuver... did you have in mind?" They were both silent for a moment.

        "Do you think you could get yourself airborne?"

* * *

        Bitty wished the ice would open up and swallow him whole. Getting airborne on the ice was his specialty, but how exactly could he show that without a) blowing his cover or b) mucking it all up and having to get checked again? Jack seemed indifferent, which is a terrible thing for one to see as they wish death and gloom upon themselves. Even if they are just being overdramatic, as Shitty had told him a few days ago.

        **_"Just tell him, bro. There'll be, like, wayyyy less stress on you then. And so what if he remembers? He knows your skill level pretty well by now. Plus, I told you about a gazillion times, no hockey chump is ever gonna remember or care that you fell while fucking doing a mid air 360. That shit is a fever dream to any of these guys."_**

        Bitty weighed his options. Actually showing off his ability to be distracting on the ice seemed like a bad idea. Deliberately failing and maybe getting hurt by the fall, then DEFINITELY getting hurt by the checking afterwards also seemed like a bad idea.

        He sighed. Then, he finally responded to the question.

        "Yes, actually. I can get myself airborne."


End file.
